


Candyman Express

by GunpowderFlaw



Category: Eminem (Musician), Machine Gun Kelly (Musician), Music RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Colson has a secret crush, Customer Em, M/M, Sexual Tension, Tattoo Artist! Colson, i have no idea how tattoo artists work, i really hate to spoil everything with the tags so I’ll leave it there, soft em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GunpowderFlaw/pseuds/GunpowderFlaw
Summary: An unexpected customer shows up in Colson’s tattoo shop.Chapter 2 updated!
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Eminem
Comments: 23
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I name this fic Candyman Express, I’m a sucker for weird titles

The gangly blond tattoo artist wears a black mesh tank top that does little to cover the flamboyant tattoos spreading over his upper body. A pair of loose fitting cargo pants and some dirty Chuck Taylors make it impossible to see if the artist has more ink on him. Marshall hears the door closing behind him, as something in the back of his mind tells him, with a kind of amusement, that the artist seems to be a bit too tall for a small shop like this.

There are photographs of finished tattoos all over the left side wall, some with sleek black frames and some are just polaroids clipped on a hanging string. Across the shop on the right side, a couple of exotic wooden artifacts are fixed against the wall, above which hangs a large square rug with red, black and yellow Peruvian motifs.

An empty recliner is at the back of the store, half surrounded by tattoo equipment and a small shelf of ink supplies. The area is separated from the couches in the front waiting area by a folding screen, and in the corner leans a huge mirror.

Some of Marshall's tattoos are really beginning to fade, and despite his dislike towards some, what he hates more than having arguably ugly tattoos is having faded ugly tattoos. So when he saw some fresh looking, nicely done ink on a friend's forearm, he asked them for the tattoo artist's information and had Paul book him an appointment.

The kid is staring at him, and Marshall can see the herald of a stupid smile at the twitching corners of the young man's mouth. He clears his throat.

The blond scratches the back of his head and takes a step forward, "are you... Mr. Candyman?"

Fuck Paul and his M&M jokes. Marshall shrugs, his composure calm. "I suppose."

"The man on the phone only told me it's gonna be someone famous and that I need to clear the store out, but he forgot to mention it's you." The artist pulls his right hand out of his pants' pocket, extending it to Marshall. "I'm Colson."

Their rings clink as Marshall takes the other's hand, he is just about to let go of Colson when the younger man's warm palm tightens, pulling him closer to bump their shoulders together.

"I've always loved your music." The tattoo artist says, Marshall can feel the other's breath on his earlobe. His body stiffens to suppress an oncoming flinch, he prays that the next couple hours won’t be a complete fanboy disaster. 

"Thanks." He manages to say before their hands detach.

"So all you need is some touch-up, correct?" To Marshall's relief, Colson seems to be professional enough to drop the music related topic.

He nods, masking his resolution of not looking the blond in the eyes with an interest in the store's decor.

The blond smiles and turns around to walk past the folding screen, beckoning Marshall to follow him. On Marshall's short way to the back of the store, the taller man gives him a once-over, with no clear emotion in his blue eyes.

"I'll need you to take off your clothes." The tattoo artist has sat down casually on a stool next to the recliner.

"W-What?" Marshall stutters.

"Not all of your clothes, of course." Colson's smile widens, "just the tee."

He bites his lips when a curse threatens to pop out as his discomfiture flares, and he complies, discarding his white T-shirt onto the hangers.

"Take a seat, please." Colson pats the recliner sweetly, his tone soft, it’s as if he’s trying to comfort some virgin that gets all worked up and nervous before their first time.

"Okay." He throws himself onto the thin leather-clad cushions, attempting to disguise whatever he is feeling with his signature indifference. Still, he can't help feeling like a piece of meat on a cutting board when Colson stands up to inspect the ink buried under his skin.

"Your right arm is gonna need more work." The blond states, "and here, the details of her hair is all blurred or whatever." Colson's thumb ghosts over his right shoulder, and in the rapper’s head, the movement almost leaves a visible trail, like snails on dry stones.

The shop is unsettlingly quiet as Colson starts working, street noise deadened by the shut front door, and what's left of it is absorbed by those soft furniture and decorations on the other side of the screen. Behind the screen, Marshall tries to stable his breathes in the buzzing sound of the tattoo gun, warm lights cast down onto them like a blanket that wraps them up and isolates them from the world. He looks down to find Colson leaning in, until the tip of the blond's nose is close enough to brush over the inside of his wrist. 

With the constant sting of the tattoo gun, Marshall's entire focus zeros in on his lower arm, Colson’s every humid breath and small touch gripping his nerve endings, a sparkling sensation at the bottom of his spine building as the blond moves upwards, and the room suddenly feels too heated.

"You got any music to play while you work?" Marshall asks, uncertain, head still reeling from his confusing reaction to getting his tattoos touched up by a pretty blond.

"Yeah, I do." Colson stops and looks up without moving the rest of his body, the position puts the blond's head merely above the rapper's lap. "But they are mostly your songs, and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable." A low laugh pushes through pink lips, and Marshall's arm is attacked by a fit of muggy breath.

Definitely not fanboy disaster. Marshall thinks. But sexual confusion. He can feel his control slipping.

"Is it too cold? You were shivering a bit." The blond puts down his tattoo gun and bare hands return to loosely take hold of the rapper's forearm.

Electric sparks shoot up Marshall's spine, he struggles to swallow an indignant whimper as he shakily opens his mouth. "Nah, it's fine. Let's just get it over with."

That sounds more like a plea than the boredom he intended to display. The damn bastard has the heart to flash him a bright smile, "no problem.”

After a while, his sense of time is flushed down the drain by the ever increasing intensity of Colson’s touch as the taller man proceeds upward to work on his upper arm. And before long the tattoo artist is standing behind him and leaning forward, literally breathing down his neck, hands warm against his right shoulder.

“We’re almost done...” Colson mumbled, he is so close to Marshall that the vibrations instantly travel to the sensitive skin on the rapper’s neck. At the moment all of Marshall’s energy is used on not shivering like branches in a hurricane, and he almost missed the weak moan escaping his half opened mouth. The buzzing sound comes to an abrupt halt.

Great. Now he’s just embarrassing himself in front of a cute, but presumably straight guy. This Colson dude is just doing his damn job, for fuck’s sake. Marshall rolls his eyes in annoyance, grateful that Colson won’t be able to see it.

“Huh.” Interestingly, the blond doesn’t sound surprised, “you like that.”

Marshall hears a clink, then suddenly the humid breathes are back, landing on the side of his neck, getting closer with each exhale. 

“Fuck, I’m definitely getting punched in the face after this.” Colson breathes.

The rapper swallows, almost expectantly, and waits. 

A pair of soft lips caress the skin right above his artery, and pause, as if waiting for Marshall’s rejection. When nothing happens, those lips close around the spot of tender skin, with the movement Colson’s nose brushes over his jawline, sending shivers down his torso. 

Marshall squirms, hands clenching and unclenching the armrests as the blond leaves a string of wet, open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone. Then those sinister lips move up to nip at his jaw, while one hand strokes his side and the other drags down to push one finger under the hem of Marshall’s pants. 

Struck with a newly found vulnerability, the older man looks down, flustered, anxious of any advance the untattooed hands will make. He spares a glance at his crotch. Yep, definitely interested. Colson takes the chance to bring up both of his hands and gently directs the rapper’s head, nudging their lips together and muzzling Marshall’s small, desperate moans.

Legs uncontrollably curling when the blond trails his right hand down past his waist once again, Marshall sighs shakily between kisses, “fuck.” 

And just like that, the magic is gone, the trance that caught them both in a whirlwind of confused desire shattered into a million pieces of waning lust and growing embarrassment. Colson stands back up and clears his throat.

“Fuck. I’m sorry—” Voice hoarse, the blond scrambles to pick up the long forgotten tattoo gun. 

But Marshall is already getting up, he grabs his T-shirt and stuffs himself into it before realizing that he probably should put some ointment on the touch-ups first.

“Hey, careful!” The tall blond throws the tattoo gun away and rushes toward Marshall, snatching a small jar on his way. “You should use it on them. Technically they are still open wounds.” Handing it to the older rapper, Colson manages a curt smile, his lips tight. “And you are welcome to punch me, I know I fucked up.”

“N-no, I wasn’t going to.” He takes the jar, fidgeting it between his fingers. 

“Right...” The taller man trails off, eyes roaming back and forth Marshall’s face and arms.

“I think I’ll let you finish them.” Marshall says. “But, just not today.” He adds when Colson’s blue eyes light up, and he inwardly hates himself a little bit for chickening out.

“Sure.” Colson follows him to the front of the shop, seemingly cooled down enough when placing a piece of paper that he pulled out of nowhere in Marshall’s hand. “Just give me a call.”

Approaching the glass door, Marshall nods. The blond holds it open for him before he could get it himself. 

His face feels hot as he walks past it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for not carrying on with the smut, been having the biggest writers block lately
> 
> Thank y’all for reading! Sending love to every one of you on this small ship *heart emoji*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall gives Colson a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I felt bad for cockblocking these two so here it is. However, I started out wanting to write some porn, but shit got out of hand and only half of this chapter ended up porn-ish.

In Marshall’s head, it would be way too obvious to have Paul book him another appointment with the tattoo artist, since he’s supposed to be done with the touch-up last time and he’s not the kind of person making capricious decisions on getting new tattoos. 

The piece of paper with Colson’s number on it feels hot whenever he touches it, fibers conducting sparks to his skin. There’s a lump in his throat as he punches in the numbers on his phone, a sense of uneasiness sprouting when he checks the number for the third time.

Fuck. He doesn’t usually do this, and a lack of practice makes him even more on edge thinking of all the scenarios that things could go wrong. Colson doesn’t have his number, so what if he didn’t pick up? Should he call again but would that make him seem too eager? But if the call went through, what would be the appropriate thing to say?

He puts his phone down and leans back in his sofa to stare at the ceiling. It’s so pale and dull, white paint smooth and unrelenting, intransigent almost, like the first snow deep into autumn, silently covering up everything, as if it had the power to wipe out the entire humanity. He closes his eyes, letting words and images flood his mind until there are lines forming, morphing into sentences that sound similar but with different meanings. Then more words start pouring out when he picks up the pencil, its grey trails crawling and filling out the page before he even notices the time passing. A peek at the clock dawns something in the back of his head as his train of thought is neatly cut off, the presence of a small, rectangular digital device becoming impossible to ignore.

It might be because of the exhaustion that makes his head steamy, or the confidence-boosting side effect of writing, he wastes no time picking up his phone, and pressing call.

On the second ring Marshall is suddenly hit with the realization that the other probably won’t pick up as it’s already past midnight, and his heart speeds up with the anticipation of a seemingly imminent dismissal. All the confidence he had prior to picking up his phone has vanished as the fifth unwavering ring reaches his ear.

“Yeah?” Comes a muffled voice. Marshall almost drops his cell with the unexpected loud answer against the silence in his room. It’s unmistakably Colson, except his speech is curled around the edges and dulled dance music is blasting in the background.

“Are you in the bathroom of a club or some shit?” Marshall asks.

“I... guess, what’s up?”

“Are you drunk?” This is not how Marshall envisioned speaking with the tattoo artist, but his previous qualms are already dissipating when the awkwardness he and Colson left off on doesn’t resurface.

“I’m not... not that far gone, dude.” He can hear an audible inhale, then there seems to be a muffled voice calling out to the blond.“Shit. Excuse me hon, but you better tell me what you’re calling for before I’m totally trashed.”

The nickname is evoking all kinds of weird, fuzzy feelings inside Marshall, just like those unexplainable thoughts of the blond he’s been having ever since leaving the other’s shop a week ago.

“Are you cool with coming to my place and finishing those tattoos?” He asks, curt.

A pause stretches on the other side, letting the muted beats fill up the distance between them.

“Dude, is there anything I won’t be cool with - with you? Hell, just text me the addy and time.” The other slurs, but sounds a bit sobered up from the proposal, “gotta be honest with you, I’m both freaking out and super excited right now, so pardon me for my inability of extracting proper words from my brain.”

“Don’t worry, you sound cuter drunk than sober.”

Nighttime always has this numbing effect on him, as though his verbal inhibitions during the day are lowered and stupid stuff spills out of him like water from a cracking teacup.

“Now who’s flirting?” Colson sounds smug.

“Hey, I let you suck on my neck like a damn vampire last time and you can’t believe I’m flirting now?”

The blond groans, “fuck, you can’t do me dirty like that! Now how am I supposed to hook up with anyone in this club without thinking about you?”

“You better not.” Marshall grins. Shit. The kid’s goofy energy is really getting to him. After acknowledging the fact that Colson is indeed interested in him, it’s becoming harder and harder to suppress his snarky comments.

After another frustrated groan, Colson says, “guess I’ll just have more booze... or go home—” his voice gets cut off by a loud bang, Marshall can hear the blond yelling “one more minute”, and then Colson speaks, more hurried than usual, “I can’t stay here any longer, people are gonna piss themselves outside. So I’ll see you—”

“Hey Colson?” That’s the first time he uses the other’s name, syllables rolling out in an overly intimate manner.

By the halt on the other end of their line, he knows the blond can sense the change of air.

“Go home.” He says, and then hangs up, hoping his tone can convey the inscrutable warmth welling up in his chest when they speak.

*

Colson shows up on time, 5pm sharp, with a black gym bag hanging heavily on his side. He’s wearing the cargo pants and Chucks from their first appointment again, but this time the mesh tank top is replaced by an oversized bright pink T-shirt. 

“Don’t forget to give your security team a raise,” the younger man says, expression bitter, “I feel like I got groped at least twice.”

“Well, they need to know if you’re here to kill me.” Marshall shrugs as he takes a step back to let the taller man into his living room.

Colson snorts. Jesus, is the man not knowing he’s pouting? Marshall thinks to himself, eyes glued to the blond’s smooth, lustered lips. He bets the taller man uses chapsticks a lot. And not in a restrained way that Marshall does.

“That depends on if you can handle this.” The blond holds out a hand to direct it dramatically at himself.

“I certainly hope so.” Marshall turns to hold the tattoo artist’s gaze, this time feeling much more in control at his own place.

“So you got the setup?” Not waiting for a reply, Colson saunters past him and into the house, “your place is fucking huge!” The younger man turns back to face him, excited, as though sharing the news with someone who’s equally a stranger to this house.

“Just go upstairs, it’s right next to the main bedroom.” Marshall says, biting his lips to suppress a smile. But judging by the way the other’s face brightens up even more, it’s obviously too late.

“And I thought you don’t laugh.” 

“What gives you that impression?” He gives up holding back a quiet laugh, crossing his arms more as a way to display dominance than defense. 

The blond’s eyes droop and appears to be thinking. “So it’s like a publicity thing?”

“More or less.” He answers, his tone softer than intended. “Let’s get upstairs.”

Watching Colson prepare all of the tattoo equipment in his house is fascinating. For someone seems to be whimsical and always invigorated in an impossible way, Colson now has one knee on the floor as he attentively sorts out tools and supplies in his bag, putting them onto the movable shelf one by one with a kind of patience Marshall didn’t know he’s capable of.

The room is adjacent to Marshall’s closet, not connecting to the main bedroom, with carpeted floor, a desk and chair by the window and a nice audio system, it has been his makeshift office. But it’s also spacious enough to contain a tattoo chair at the other side of the room, close to the door. Marshall is now sitting back in said chair, languidly inspecting the other’s movements, and at one point he notices the artist’s pink leopard print manicure.

“You did that by yourself?” He hints the blond’s nails with his eyes.

“Nah. If that’s the case, I’ll be opening a nail salon instead.”

“Kinda matches your T-shirt.” Marshall observes, unable to think of a better remark other than ‘I have no idea why a dude should have this’. 

“Thanks. I sometimes play guitar for a friend’s band, and I want my fretting hand to look nice.” He shows Marshall both of his hands, and there’s nothing on his right hand’s nails.

“Where do you perform?” 

“You interested?” Colson’s blue eyes light up, “fuck I can’t believe Eminem just asked me about the band I’m in!” He’s looking up at Marshall, still with one knee on the floor. There’s a big smile on his face and blond strands fall on his forehead. For a moment, Marshall’s tempted to run a hand through them and brush them back. 

“Okay, right.” Finally remembering the original question, Colson’s back to preparing. “We perform at a shitty bar, and I’m not always there since I got a real job.” 

“That you are really good at.” Marshall adds. He can’t explain where his urge of making the other feel better comes from.

“Can’t deny that.” There’s a sheepishly smug smile, and then Colson turns on the tattoo gun as the buzzing sound begins to fill the space.

“Em, where did you get this fucking midget stool?” After a while when Colson starts working on his upper arm, both of them realize that to get close enough to Marshall’s skin, the blond has to reach up and twist himself in a way that’ll definitely lead to a sore back the next day.

“It worked fine last time.” He mutters.

“Maybe the last bastard was too scared to voice their thoughts.” Colson deadpans, “but hey, I can always sit somewhere else.” He eyes the rapper’s lap.

The thought of downplaying the proposition is the first to flit Marshall’s mind, but he stops himself from doing so and sneers internally at the idea of chickening out a second time.

“Go ahead.” He gestures with the best approving look he can manage.

Before he can sit back up a bit from his slouching stance, the skinny blond has already climbed up and straddled him. The first thing he can feel is the other’s weight on him, not too much, but definitely heavier than a chick. Then comes the warmth, and a faint wooden sweet smell. Marshall feels his blood start slowly running south with the sensation. 

Colson doesn’t say anything, just takes a look at him and quickly averts his gaze, picking up the tattoo gun and shifting back a little on Marshall’s lap to cope with their height difference. 

When Colson starts working on his left shoulder, the blond is literally resting his head against Marshall’s face, his hair tickling the rapper’s sensitive skin there on and off. Marshall can barely register the buzzing sound at this point albeit its proximity, surrounded by the tattoo artist’s radiating heat and dry, clean smell. His right hand is itching to be put onto the other’s hip with the constant shifting of the taller man, and his pants are starting to get a bit less comfortable for all the blood leaving his head and rushing down. He can’t think, brain functions overwhelmed by the presence of another man in his lap, and a part of him fears the broken, lecherous thoughts hovering over his mind are too loud the other might overhear.

With his mind in the blender, Marshall almost missed it when Colson sets down the tattoo gun, but the small nudge of the blond’s head against his neck is hardly something to neglect. 

“I’m done.” Colson whispers in his ear, the click of his tongue downright dirty.

“Yeah?” He says, tone half challenging. 

“Fuck.” The other curses quietly, “Why are you being so difficult?” 

Marshall looks down. The other’s definitely hard, thighs wide as he leans back, looking at the rapper with a pair of half-lidded blue eyes.

“I guess I’m just having difficulties believing this is really happening.” He lifts his knees a little to flush Colson against him before finishing the sentence, wrapping his arms around the other’s slender waist.

They both moan from the sudden pressure on their still clothed cocks by that movement. Colson grinds back almost uncontrollably, eliciting another shaky moan from the older man, who then pushes past the elastic band of the blond’s underwear to grab two handfuls of meaty flesh.

“Fuck.” This time the curse sounds more like a whine than an actual word. Colson lowers his head and puts his tatted arms around Marshall like a drowning man holding onto his last straw. Marshall tilts his head, meeting Colson’s desperate lips in an awkward position halfway and muzzling any sound they make before thrusting up a few times.

Before long the bright pink T-shirt is getting in the way, Marshall claws at its hem and the blond obediently raises his arms to let the rapper take it off him. Without it, Marshall is quick to suck a soon-to-be hickey just under the other’s collarbone before moving down to lap at a nipple. Colson squirms. Their positions make it hard for the blond to actually reach down to the rapper, and he sure seems somewhat helpless stuck between Marshall’s hands and body.

After a few more humps and some breathy groans he manages to extort out of the blond, Marshall starts working on the other’s pants, pushing those baggy pants down just enough to reveal the other’s ass as he wiggles out of his own sweatpants. He takes hold of the blond’s hand and sucks two fingers in his mouth while staring into those mesmerized blue eyes as he rocks both of them with languid snaps of his hips. The wet drag of their cocks makes the younger man shudder, and Marshall’s pathetic moan is smothered by the fingers stuffing his mouth. When the blond’s fingers are feeling wet enough, Marshall pulls them out with a hand on Colson’s wrist. 

“These are gonna be in your ass, that okay?” He asks, throat tight and voice raspy.

Colson nods, letting Marshall lead his own hand down to poke at his rim. The first finger goes in without too much resistance, Marshall carefully directing the other’s pace. But the stretch from a second finger has the blond’s eyes squeezing shut, “there’s lube on the shelf.” 

Marshall scrambles to fish it out, knocking several bottles down in the process. He coats Colson’s fingers with a generous amount, and then guides them back inside the younger man’s body.

After a while those long fingers are moving faster for that the blond has loosened up, and a fairly hard thrust has Colson whimpering, his body shaking before tightening into an arch, hard-on heavy against his abdomen.

“There?” Marshall asks, reaching forward to suck kisses on the other’s neck.

“Yea—” The blond doesn’t get to finish that as Marshall’s hold on his wrist tightens and his fingers are once again shoved into himself and land dead on the small bundle of nerves.

The younger man’s thighs are shaking against Marshall, the cargo pants cutting into his flesh just below the soft globes of his ass. The fact that his prostate is jabbed with every push of his own fingers leaves the blond’s mouth hanging open, short bursts of snuffling gasps escaping without inhibition. Marshall can’t tell how long has passed when Colson starts wriggling his hips up and down to fuck himself onto three fingers, the rapper’s hand still clutching the other’s wrist as if to slow him down from the frantic movements. 

Colson’s free hand is bruisingly tight on his shoulder, and he can see a vein popping out of the other’s flushed neck. His own dick is leaking now, the image of Colson fingering himself alone is already too much for him to handle. Before he knows he is tugging the other’s hand, a squelching sound announcing the fingers’ exit. The blond lowers his head to take Marshall’s earlobe between his lips, biting down just a little to provoke a groan out of the older man.

They part as the blond retreats, and Marshall can instantly spot Colson’s hungry gaze on his cock. Their eyes meet, and the next second Colson is reaching down to grab the leaking organ.

“So wet for me...” Colson murmurs while moving his hand up and down the older man’s dick, seemingly satisfied as he takes out a condom out of nowhere.

Marshall nearly laughs with the more common implications of the other’s words, but his mirth rapidly dies down when the speed of Colson’s strokes pick up. Instead, a loud sigh is forced out of him and released into the tremor-less air between them. Colson’s trembling legs manage to prop himself up a bit as he guides Marshall’s dick to his now relaxed hole, and cries out when he impales himself on the hardness in one go.

“Fuck. Can’t you take it slow?” Marshall hisses. The younger man feels tight, almost too tight, and definitely hot, warmth radiating off of him like an invisible halo. For a moment the rapper can’t muster any coherent thoughts but the heat wrapped around him, the slight convulses sucking him deeper into the slender body, and his heartbeat drums against the inside of his veins he can almost hear the erratic sound bouncing off the taller man’s chest. 

The blond’s breaths are nearly tinged with a screeching quality and he’s curling forward to put his forehead on Marshall’s shoulder, arms nearly choking him as the older man moves his hips experimentally. It draws out a high-pitched whine, then he gently rocks again, this time the blond tenses, moaning as Marshall thrusts up again with the same angle. From then on Marshall’s snaps of hips are only getting harder and more brutal, the sounds from both of them muddling into a chaotic mess of discordant notes. 

“Marshall...” Colson sounds like he’s on the verge of sobbing, “I’m so close...” His syllables breaking up with how hard he’s slamming down to meet Marshall’s dick thrusting inside him. And with that Marshall reaches down to jerk the blond off in earnest, taking in the other’s broken moans as his own control tips over. 

He comes seconds before Colson’s walls start clamping down on him, milking his spent cock as the blond’s blunt nails dig into his back. Still reeling and trying to reign in their labored breaths, Colson slowly gets up, his legs shaking. Marshall watches his own dick slips out of the other man before Colson takes hold of his jaw to pepper a kiss on his lips. 

“Walking will be difficult for me tomorrow.” After taking a few small steps, the blond states. “I rarely fuck dudes, let along ride their dicks like that.” He struggles to pull his pants back on. 

“Too sore?” Marshall asks, half-heartedly, head still swimming from the afterglow.

“And my legs hurt. My flexibility is a joke.” With one hand holding onto Marshall’s chair, Colson finally snatches his T-shirt from the floor. 

“Hey um,” Marshall is quickly seized by a dizzying anxiety when pondering too much on the thing he’s going to ask the other, “you wanna stay for a bit?”

“You can use my bathroom to take a shower.” When Colson doesn’t answer, he adds, getting even more uncertain.

“Is that an invitation for me to stay the night?” As if seeing right through the rapper, Colson smiles mischievously, “if that’s the case, I’m ordering pizza.”

“Don’t be a smartass.” Marshall smiles with the blond, their blue eyes meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I definitely had fun writing it and I hope you could enjoy this as much as I did. And please excuse me for mistakes in this chapter, I’ve been too busy to proofread (no its actually me being lazy and refuse to read the disaster I created)


End file.
